


there are moments that the words dont reach

by jadeebubbles



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Extended Scene, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Slow To Update, i didnt edit or double check this lol, its not like i ever do, well not the whole thing but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25736824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeebubbles/pseuds/jadeebubbles
Summary: Some parts of the Hero of Fereldan's story were omitted. This was either from the Chantry's generous omissions to portray her work in a more holy light, or to save face of the companions that traveled alongside her.Alistair still holds onto these memories like they're sanctified-- like they're something more valuable than life itself.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 1





	there are moments that the words dont reach

**Author's Note:**

> The meanest dog you’ll ever meet? He ain’t the hound dog in the street.  
> He’ll bare some teeth and tear some skin, but brother, that’s the worst of him.  
> The dog you really gotta dread,  
> Is the one that howls inside your head.  
> It’s him whose howling drives men mad,  
> And a mind to its undoing.  
> -Hadestown, Wait For Me II by Anais Mitchell

That morning in the halls of Denerim’s castle, the bastard Prince Theirin stared up at the wooden beams and cobbled roof above them. Dust floated in the reddened morning sun that streamed through the stained glass that stretched the height of one wall. His jaw was set, his head nestled into one of the downy pillows provided. The fire had gone out hours ago as he had slept, and the blankets remaining on the bed provided hardly any warmth for him.

He stayed still. For a moment, everything was static, ‘cept for the dust drifting slowly in the light, stirred by the slightest wisps of air flowing through them. They remained hardly disturbed in their float, unperturbed by the state of the room- nay, the world- around them. Envy crept in, lurking at the cracks in his psyche where time, patience, and heartache had worn him thin. The patches in the tapestry that had become loose and nearly threadbare, where the green light shone through. 

At least it wasn’t the call of the Archdemon. Better envy for inanimate specks of dust and airborne particles than lulled into a madness by an Old God.

He broke the stillness after moments more of gazing up towards the ceiling of the room, his hands coming up to rub the sleep from his eyes and face. It’s no time to mull or mope.

Today was the day. 

Last night was possibly the longest night of them all- something about it and this morning felt as though time was moving in slow motion. No doubt- it was the influence of the Fade growing thinner around all of Denerim- nay, all of Fereldan. It knew. The Fade was preparing for the slaughter- the fight to hopefully end the Blight, or the fight that would end the world as they knew it. 

Well, shit.

Alistair sat up slowly, ignoring the churning anxiety and shaking of his calloused, war-scarred hands and arms. He felt like he couldn’t steady himself as he stood to his feet, using the post of the foot of the bed frame to give himself stability. 

He wasn’t expecting anyone to come out of this alive, truthfully. He’d always been an optimist (or a realist, at the very least), but the looming darkness and distant thrum of Darkspawn encroaching on Denerim seemed to make it feel as though every hope was lost. He’d always replaced his worry with comedy, yet everything was so grim that he could hardly see a positive end to this.

Ever since he’d joined the Wardens (and one Warden’s group in particular), Alistair had been doubting what amount of him remaining was Andrastian. If a Maker did exist, surely he would have saved them from this Blight by now. Allowing his creations to be tortured for years on end- to nearly let it destroy and envelop Thedas into a world of ruin? The Chantry had always claimed the Maker as a merciful God. That by the gentle blessing of Andraste, they’d see through every hardship.

How could something portrayed as so loving and merciful allow His children to be tortured in such a way?

But, for the first time in what felt like eons, Alistair went to the foot of his bed that had been provided by the Arl. He knelt, head bowed, hands either clasping at each other in worry or held onto the wooden frame of the old bed. 

“Please.”

A simple prayer. Nothing worthy of a miracle. There was no prostation or pledged graces- no “Hail Andraste”s or recitations of lines from the Chant of Light. By everything he’d been taught by the Templars, it wasn’t a prayer worth any attention from whatever higher being it went to.

“Please, for the love of everything- Anything. If there’s anything out there that’d listen- Maker, Universe, fate, what have you- I’m begging you.”

He took a shaky breath in, saying the prayer just below his breath.

“Save us. Have us in your wing. Please. So much has been lost already.”

He had his eyes wrenched shut, straining to keep himself composed and strong.

“Don’t let us lose everything else, even after we’ve come so far.”

He inhaled, knuckles whitening slightly at the straining grip he had on the frame.

_ “Please, don’t let me lose her, too.” _

He stayed there for a moment longer, saying nothing, reaching out as much as any mortal being could to whatever powers could be.

Nothing answered. 

The dust remained its slow, lazy progress through the air.

Alistair let his hands fall back to his sides, breathing deep and slow. He steeled his resolve and rose to his feet. He put on his clothes and went to exit, still uneasy, but ready to face the precipice that laid bare before them all.

The door to his chamber shut behind him, the small puff of air from the movement sending the dust particles in the scarlet morning sun into unseen swirls, loops, and whorls.

* * *

It was a late night in camp. He had the third watch. His lips were pursed, whistling softly, the wind brushing by his ears, ruffling the branches as it went, carrying his chirps of boredom with it. (Was he mentally rambling? Perhaps.) His mind had run off to somewhere far from this time and place. ‘Twas a distant memory; something that smelled like fresh lemongrass, his mother’s long blonde hair, and the oceanside. The warmth of sitting in her lap next to a crackling fire, the sticks and twigs he tossed in popping and cracking…

Wait. That wasn’t a part of his memory, was it? His hand rushed to the hilt of his blade as he whipped around to come face to face with-

“Ah. It’s you.” He let out the breath he was holding, lips curling into a smile at the sight of his fellow Warden. 

She was a sight for sore eyes every time you looked at her. Hair that curled at just the right angles to frame her face, eyes that seemed so warm and yet so tired at the same time- shoulders that sagged often when she thought no one was looking, bearing down from holding the weight of all of Thedas upon them. Arms that never faltered, hands that never shook. She was a woman with persistence to admire- and by all the Gods, living or deceased, he thanked them endlessly with each sight of her that took his breath away. Beauty and magnificence and strength wrapped in to coalesce as someone with almost otherworldly presence, he thought.

“It’s me,” she said, laughing with her words. “So tense, Alistair. I didn’t think you’d jump that bad,” she snarked, coming to sit on a stump next to him. Her armor was off and left at camp, he assumed, and all that remained was the under armour, stained with sweat and dark silvery polish marks and the occasional bloody strip that was mended closed with care. His gambesons were marked similarly, of course, for being in the fray of battle tended to mar you as such.

“And I didn’t think I’d be having company on this watch. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The Female Warden smiled and rubbed the back of her neck with some nervous askance glance. “Do you ever… Since the Joining, that is- get these dreams that just… Tunnel to your deepest core? The pit of who you are. I…” She trailed, leaning back to look up at the cloudless night sky. White sparkling specks hung uniform up in the brackish blue hued sky. “... I dreamt I was in the Deep Roads. Walls closing in around me, the rock stretching miles and miles, separating me from the world- not just the sky, but  _ *everything*  _ else. And there was this odd, rhythmic hum, and this… Diseased, deadly looking dragon. The noise was coming from it, and it’s like it was trying to cry out… something.”

Alistair nodded and bowed his head, his arms falling to sit on his hips, letting the silence linger between them for a while. Crickets in the distance seemed to have quieted down significantly since her approach. Something in the air stirred, made the scene feel a little more uneasy. 

Was it just him?

“Nightmares. Duncan mentioned them before he… Before he passed. It’s something that tends to happen to all Wardens during a Blight, and can be affected by their proximity to it. That’s just from what I’ve heard, anyhow.” He moved his gaze from the nearby trees down to the loose dirt by his feet, nudging it slightly with his boots, trying to push past that guttural feeling of grief he got every time Duncan had been mentioned. “It’s not unusual. I’ve been getting them too. They’ve been more intense the past few months, truthfully. I hate to add more stress to this already delightful conversation, but it’s… Concerning.”

The seated Warden looked over to her companion, looking up at his face, concern tossed into her furrowed expression. “Do you want to talk about what happened? About Duncan?” The words came out, soft and hesitant, afraid she might break some social contract that existed, unbeknownst to her. 

“No, you don’t have to… to do that. I know you barely knew him.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t miss him too. He believed in me, for some reason I can’t seem to figure out. He believed in you, too.”

Alistair took a deep breath and took a few steps in a slow arc about the clearing, trying to think of what to say next that wouldn’t bring him close to tears. “I just…” He started, talking with his back to her, staring out at the distance before them. “... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be like this- anyone could die in battle. There’s the Blight, there’s Ostagar… There’s so much riding upon our success. I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, but the truth seemed to spill out from his heart before he could process it. “I feel responsible for getting us into this mess.”

“What for? His death? What happened at Ostagar? The fucking Blight, Alistair?” She rose to her feet now, stepping closer towards him, approaching slowly as to not scare him off, treating him as though he were some frightened Nug. 

“I don’t know at this point. Yes? All of the above?”

She closed the gap between them, setting a hand on his shoulder.

“None of that was your fault. You can’t yourself get lost in guilt like that.” She said, coming around his side to see his face, giving him ample opportunities to turn away or to close himself off. When she met no resistance, however, she continued to speak:

“If you let yourself get lost like that, then where would your guilt end? You couldn’t have known about what Loghain was planning. You, alone, couldn’t have caused a Blight.”

Alistair kept his gaze pointed forward until he could see her coming around to his front. His misty eyes threatened to overflow, and he cursed himself silently, deciding to shut his eyes tight. It was as though he was trying to block out the world around him, maybe lose himself for more than a moment, just to be rid of the stress surmounting. 

The Warden reached her hand up to his cheek. Though calloused from battle, her palm seemed so soft and tender against the stubble forming on his cheeks. He didn’t mean to lean into it as much as he did, but it’d been the first comforting and intimate touch he’d had in ages. 

“None of this is your fault.”

The newfound gentleness in her voice wrenched his heart from his chest. He opened his amber, glassy eyes to look her in the eye, quietly and desperately crying out in a deep agony he hadn’t had time to process. Thankfully, she moved first for him. Her arms came up to loop around his shoulders and tug him into a tight hold, her face burying into his neck. After the bridge between them was crossed, Alistair’s defenses cracked. He crumbled into her arms, pulling her into an embrace he desperately needed, that he hadn’t gotten in so long. He felt so meek pressed into her like this, drops of moisture falling from his face unbidden. 

The other Warden continued to mumble affirmations, her voice choking up as well as it was muffled into his shoulder. The world around them felt as though it had stopped in that moment as they both began to weep, silently and openly, baring their hearts, anxieties, worries and hurt into one giant gesture, each of them clinging desperately onto what normalcy they felt they both still had with each other.

They stayed like that for quite some time: arms entwined, tears streaming and putting damp spots onto their shoulders, choked and muffled sobs wracking their exhausted bodies. It was respite- home in a definition so holy and raw. They’d both would have felt embarrassed had it not been any other situation. It would have been clipped sentences and awkward pats, something lacking such emotion that they’d hate to display in front of the rest of the camp. No; all barriers here had been lifted. They both eventually collapsed to the ground, knees pressing into the cold earth as they both cradled each other in their arms, taking as long as they needed in the moonlit clearing to let out their grief. 

Crickets chirped again. Cicadas began to sing. That’s the only way they’d known that time was actually passing in the clearing. After the last sniffles had been sent off, and after the tears had long since dried, Alistair was the first to retreat from the embrace, wrenching himself from her arms. 

“I’m sorry you had to see me like this- I promise I don’t weep openly this often. I didn’t mean to let this all fall to you- Maker knows how much you’ve had on your plate.”

The Warden smiled back at him, taking his face into her hands. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

“Of course I do- I just got snot all over your underthings. Ugh-“ He started his emotional barrier song and dance, bringing the lightheartedness/awkwardness back into their usual swing. “- augh. It’s like someone opened a flood gate onto your shoulder. Shall I call for a sea rescue? Do I need to fetch a life preserver? Maker willing you won’t drown in all of that water on your shoulder, my goodness-“

“Alistair.”

He stopped short, looking her in the eye expectantly.

“It’s okay.”

“Right.” A pause. “... Thank you.”

Unexpectedly, the female Warden raised herself up to press a gentle peck to his forehead, treating him reverently- as though it would assuage all his worries. ait was worlds more intimate than he was expecting, which did set off a few alarms in his head, yet he opted to save that particular train of thought for tomorrow morning, for when his head didn’t feel like it was going to split twain.

“It’s my turn for watch. Go try and get some sleep, big guy.” Despite the emotional wreck they'd both been minutes before, she still managed to break through and twinge at his heartstrings with the smallest, sincerest comments such as these.

It took him a moment to process her words, but he nodded when he did. He was going to reach out and return the gentle, loving expression, but stopped himself short in fear of making things infinitely more awkward between them.

“Right. Nightmare free, I hope.”

“See you at breakfast.”

“You, too.”

The two of them stood and looked each other over, making sure there was no sign of any distress on them- nor any speck of dirt, and Alistair tried to find the right gesture. Of course, he managed to fail spectacularly, so he opted for some cheesy flourish of a bow, and a dumb line that was something like “good evening, my lady” or some shit like that. (Alistair hated the taste of his own foot, though he ate it frequently.) Thankfully, she had laughed it off, and he had walked back to camp shortly thereafter.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! so i didnt proofread this first of all sorry  
> second of all ive discovered im horrible at updating fics on time/promptly so  
> im planning on adding more tags as i continue to kinda write these drabbles but heres one that just came to me the other night while roleplaying some dragon age stuff  
> this will most likely become a collection of oneshots/whatever about alistair because i just love him thanks  
> i wrote this to ambient hozier and piano covers so thatd be good to read it to


End file.
